


The One Who Repents

by callmecasandra



Series: Transfigurations [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Caning, Canon-Typical Violence, Chastity Device, F/M, Femdom, First Time, Flogging, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Withdrawal, Nettling, Platonic BDSM, Slow Burn, Urtication, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecasandra/pseuds/callmecasandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends-to-lovers sequel to "Many Are Those Who Wander In Sin". Cullen discovers that 'mortification of the flesh' has, if nothing else, the pleasant side affect of distracting him from the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal; determined to serve the Inquisition to the best of his ability, he proposes that Cassandra continue beating him periodically to help him keep his focus. </p>
<p>Work likely to become 'Explicit' at some point, and tags will almost certainly change as the story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately following "Many Are Those Who Wander In Sin", though it is not necessary to read that first.

Cullen sleeps for most of the afternoon; there is barely any light left in the sky when he wakes. At first he is surprised; it has been _so long_ since he last slept peacefully and without disturbance. It is only when he moves that he remembers. Cassandra – _Seeker Pentaghast_ – had bent him over his own desk and caned him, for – yes, his rather shameful and obstinate pride.

His arse and thighs are quite thoroughly welted. It will be difficult for him to move normally for several days, and he had been, if not a _model_ recruit, at least sincere in his desire to be one; he had rarely gotten the stick. He hisses now as he moves, wondering how he could ever have forgotten this – horrible, burning, swollen – sensation. It is singular, and rather concentrates the mind. Cassandra had offered him salve, and he does not think she would object if he changed his mind and applied it now, but he had forced her hand, and he is capable of bearing the consequences.

He _has_ changed his mind about the other matter, though not out of fear that she will beat him again. He thinks she was rather more upset than he was, in the end. No, he has to come to the conclusion that she is correct: his sole reason for withholding something so crucial from the Inquisitor was stiff-necked pride, nothing grander. Reflecting on the risk they were running – oh, he’d been able to pretend it was not so very great, it had been so long, Cassandra could watch him – but they were taking a risk with it. On _him_. He should be grateful. He _is_ grateful. He will not take it for granted.

He stands finally, and though the discomfort is bearable, it is distracting. Or: it distracts from thought of anything else. He lowers his sleep pants, and, wincing, turns to catch sight of the marks. They are indeed impressive, far worse than anything he’d ever merited at school – though no-one had ever used a rod so thick or, likely, put quite so much power into the swing. Cassandra’s had been a military discipline, even if its application had been… unorthodox.

He raises his pants carefully, and wonders how the Inquisitor will take it – not the beating, he has no intention of bringing _that_ up. He doubts she will dismiss him. He has served well. He has.

He’s thought that before, though. Lied to himself about the things going on around him… has he sunk so low that he’ll lie about what he’s responsible for, too? He – was that what Cassandra had been afraid of? No. _No_. He can be sure of that, at least. She would not placate him. He need only sit down, or move a little too carelessly to remember how little patience for his nonsense she has. If his position is in jeopardy, then, it is only his own doing, for withholding the information as long as he has. An unpleasant thought, but a fair one, but he does not think the formidable cadre of Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine will let him go without a fight, even if the Inquisitor is so inclined.

He should go – no. He is confined to quarters. He sinks back down on the bed, slowly.

He sleeps, again, dreamlessly, until he hears Cassandra’s tread on the ladder. He sits up carefully, drawing himself up on one elbow as he turns to see her: but she only carries his dinner on a small tray.

“I do not have the right to enquire after how you are feeling,” she says, lips tightening, “having been the cause of your pain. But I… hope you are not unduly distressed. And in any case, the hour grows quite late. You should eat, if you feel capable of it.”

“I am – much better,” Cullen tells her. “Thank you.”

Cassandra frowns. “I did not mean to restrict your access to food, Commander. An unnecessary cruelty, particularly given the circumstances. As I was the one to confine you to quarters, that makes it my responsibility to ensure you are fed.”

“I understand. But. I was not thanking you only for the food, though I appreciate you thinking of it. But rather for,” he can’t quite meet her eyes as he says, “ _intervening_ as you did. I will tell the Inquisitor, tomorrow.”

“I am glad to hear that. The latter,” she says, and is that strain on her voice? “I am… surprised to hear the former. I would have understood a… less gracious response.”

“It is sincere,” Cullen assures her. “You were right. Both in your insistence that the Inquisitor should be told, and that I was in need of a lesson in humility.”

Her eyes sweep down his form. “Your posture suggests that you still have not availed yourself of elfroot. I still do not object.”

He thinks she would have, bar his outburst after the beating. It is not pity, and he is glad, but he is grateful for her compassion. “I appreciate that you have no desire to be cruel, Seeker. But I both agree that the correction was merited, and think it was fair. Thus I will heal naturally, unless something pressing occurs.”

She nods, accepting this without protest, a penance less imposed than accepted, even if it did not start out that way. But reconciliation comes by many long and winding paths.

+++ +++ +++

To say that he is still tender the following day would be to indulge in a fine piece of understatement, but it passes without comment. Doubtless no-one can conceive of the truth, and thus are assuming that he was injured sparring or some such. No one inquires.

When the Inquisitor asks if he is in pain, he knows she means from the withdrawal. When he replies that he can endure it, he refers to the same, if with a trace of absurdist irony thrown in.

It is only later – several days later, as the bruises heal -- that he realises how little the withdrawal symptoms had troubled him when he had Cassandra’s lesson to contemplate instead.

He lasts several more days before asking for a meeting. At first he is surprised by the thought, then mortified, and then humbled. It is not an easy thing to ask for. And she may refuse him. But he will not let his pride get in the way of his duty, not again. It is the chief sin for a reason, capable of justifying anything in its protection. It must be crushed.

But as his symptoms return, he knows he must speak with her. Far better for the inquisition and his own good that he flogged and useful, rather than mind-fogged and pretending all is well.

“Commander?” Cassandra asks as she steps into his office. “One of the soldiers said you were looking to speak with me.”

“Yes,” he says, not sure how to look at her. Things had been clearer in his head. Despite the subject matter. Despite the awkwardness between them. Despite the fact that they have not spoken since Cullen had returned to duty. Only now does he realise that it might have been deliberate.

“Seeker. I –“ he rubs the back of his neck.

She steps into the breach, warrior that she is, in the awkward pause that follows. “You are… troubled,” she suggests.

“Yes,” he agrees. That much is undeniable. Easy. Easy and far too vague. He pushes on, as he sees her marshalling to try again. He appreciates it, but he cannot squander her strength now. “The withdrawal symptoms are returning. They are a distraction when I should be focussed.”

“There will be days like this Commander,” she tells him, not without empathy, but entirely firmly. It would not be good for either of them if she were inclined to tolerate whining.

“You misunderstand, Seeker,” Cullen says. “I remained determined to stay my course. But I would ask for your assistance in the matter.”

Her brow furrows, and she steps closer. “You have it, Commander. You know this.”

Cullen sighs. “I – I am _appalled_ to be asking you this,” he admits, finally. “Even to simply tell you –“

“Commander?” Cassandra does not look reassured. But he can admit that he is hardly being reassuring.

He does not meet her eyes, in fact, he half-turns to the window. “I had relief. From the symptoms. For days,” he tells her haltingly. “It would appear that… _mortification of the flesh_ is good for more than the soul.”

There is a short pause before he hears in a small, “Oh,” in a tone of faint surprise, he thinks. Then, after another moment – he knows himself to be a coward when he does not turn to look, she says, “and the thing of which you are appalled to speak, let alone _ask_ , is to – that we – that is to say –“ she coughs. “You wish to repeat the exercise.”

“Yes,” Cullen says, eyes falling closed as he does.

They fly open when she says, “I suppose I have no objection,” and he turns to look at her, mutely. She shrugs. “It is not an unreasonable request. I know few people understand what it is to be a warrior, let alone a Templar, but though the Seekers do not have all the same burdens—“ she stops, suddenly. “I would like to help. And if this is what it means to help, then so be it.”

It is almost mesmerising, how unflappable she is. “Thank you,” Cullen breathes.

“Now?” She asks.

Cullen hesitates. “I cannot afford to take the day to recover – the whole point of the exercise is to _not_ be incapacitated.”

Cassandra nods. “Six now,” she suggests. “And I will come to you tonight and give you more.”

“Very well,” Cullen manages, then swallows. Somehow, one never quite remembers pain, but he remembers enough to know that it will be worse than what he’s anticipating. As Cassandra picks up the rod, he sheds his tunic and lowers his trousers and smalls without prompting. It is only when Cassandra makes a vaguely startled noise that he realises that she may not have expected the latter. _Very_ belatedly, he realises she had not asked for him to do more than lower his trousers the last time, either.

But she says nothing, and his cheeks are burning as he lays himself across his desk, and he grips the edge of his desk without a word. She steps behind him, and lays a steadying hand on the small of his back, before cracking the rod across his arse.

It is bad. Shockingly bad, he never remembers, _how_ does he never remember? His eyes are still screwed tight as the next blow lands, and then they fly open in surprise. He bites back a cry on the third – it is not that he doesn’t have practice at being in pain, but really –

The fourth is at the tops of his thighs, and it’s becoming surprisingly hard to keep his composure. He’d managed to get much further than six before becoming… restive the last time, but he’d had his righteous anger to help him through it. This is just mortifying, fleshy and otherwise. There is a low whine from his throat – it must be his throat, he can feel the reverberation, unbelievable as the thought is, when the fifth blow cracks across his thighs, and Cassandra pauses.

For a heart stopping moment, he thinks she will call a halt, and worse, he is torn between hope and dread that she will. “You have a brave heart, Commander,” she says, and lays on the last one, as hard as all those before it, and Cullen bites back a cry.

She draws up his clothes as she did the last time, though he is perfectly capable of – well, lying there feeling dazed, really. He forces himself upright, and closes the fastenings of his trousers without assistance as Cassandra pours him a cup of water. He drinks it in silence. “Thank you,” he says, finally, and they both know he means for more than the water.

“I will come again, after supper,” Cassandra says steadily, and lets herself out.

Once she has, Cullen lowers himself with care into his seat, and turns his mind to his work.


	2. Chapter 2

After supper, as agreed, Cassandra makes her way to Cullen’s office. For a moment, she thinks he is not there, and she feels – strangely. A sort of relief, shameful but understandable. Far worse is the sense of _disappointment_. She doesn’t want to _hurt_ him, but he is so… delightfully stoic. And well made. And he will insist on doing the thing properly, bottom on full display, thighs quivering from strain –

There is a moment’s panic before she realises that gasp wasn’t her. Good. _Then_ it dawns on her that she is blushing, and that will not do. She waits for a moment, listening to Cullen moving around upstairs before calling up the ladder, “Shall I come up, Commander?”

“Please,” he replies.

She glances around for the rod, before concluding that he took it up with him. She climbs the ladder. It feels very odd; it’s the first time she’s done it while not balancing extra weight. It feels much more personal, all of a sudden, and once she’s off the ladder, she’s not quite sure what to do with her hands.

“Thank you for coming,” Cullen says politely, rising from the bed. He’s already doffed most of his clothing – just wearing loose trousers he can sleep in. Very practical; she nods approvingly before realising what she’s doing, and, oh no, he noticed, because he’s smiling! But it’s not mockery, she thinks, just a small smile that shows him glad to have pleased her. It fades too quickly. “I _am_ sorry to ask this of you.”

“It is not a burden, Commander, not on me. I simply wish to help you carry yours,” she says steadily.

He breathes sharply through his nose. “Thank you,” he says again, on the exhale.

“I am not quite certain what to suggest, however,” Cassandra says. “Another eighteen seems like rather a lot, even with a night’s rest. How was six?”

Cullen thinks. “Adequate,” he says slowly. “It seemed rather a lot at the time.” He coughs.

Cassandra laughs a little. “I recall – oh, no, I don’t mean you,” she hastens to add, tripping over her own tongue. “I was no saint.” And she is blushing again. Ridiculous.

But Cullen is laughing with her. “I daresay I wasn’t either,” he admits. “But six won’t mean much by tomorrow.” They’re both far too used to pain.

“Is a dozen tonight too much?” Cassandra asks, trying to think through their options.

Cullen hesitates before saying, “No. Though I cannot promise to be, ah, _heroic_ about it.”

“Put that thought from your mind, Commander,” Cassandra says, stepping closer to him, and cupping his face in her hand. “It takes a great deal more courage to ask for this, to submit to this willingly, to better serve the Inquisition than it does to take a dozen forced blows in perfect silence.”

She feels the silent nod against her palm, before he turns away, and faces the end of his bed, lowering his clothes. Again, he bends without being bid, and she steps up behind him, marvelling at the dark bruises she’s left on his skin. She wishes now she had bunched them closer together – she’d thought it kinder to spread them out, but now she must strike, _twice_ , _perfectly_ , in the spaces in between, and _still_ she will be striking skin if not outright welted, then bruised and swollen. “I did not do this very well,” she admits aloud, telling him her observations.

“I saw,” Cullen simply tells her, and of course he looked. Wouldn’t she? Didn’t she, when she was chastised thusly? It’s like picking at a scab. Who resists?

“I am sorry,” she says. “Truly. I did not suggest a dozen with this in mind.”

There is a pause before he says. “Another six seems… insufficient. I will be simply be asking you here in another few days to do this again.”

“We will be doing this, not infrequently, for some time,” Cassandra points out, “if we mean to do this until the withdrawal abates.”

“That is true,” Cullen admits. There is a long pause before he agrees with a sigh, “another six, then.”

Cassandra will be glad of their decision, later. It is bad. Not as bad as the first time, when he hadn’t understood that it was over, when he’d thought she’d meant to crush his spirit, not the false pride leading him so far astray, but nothing could be so bad as those heart stopping moments as he’d told her what had happened to him in the Circle Tower and the Gallows, and she’d had a moment of perfect horrifying comprehension of what he’d believed she’d intended for him. Holy Maker, it was a gift that he could even meet her eyes, let alone speak to her as a friend. To ask for this, himself…

She tries to be gentle. Oh, not with the blows. Those she gives as hard as ever, because that is what _help_ looks like right now, and she has promised him her aid. But she keeps her hand on his spine, and waits longer between blows.

She says nothing as his hands fist in his bedding on the first strike (the seventh, today, this time on much abused flesh). He cries out on the third, and she controls the urge to shush him. His face is in his bedding; there are none close enough to hear him, bar her, and she can bear it. His dignity will not be compromised.

Despite the pain, he makes no attempt to rise, or interfere with the blows, or kick her away. How much strength of will must that take? He is no child, easily overpowered, no recruit frightened of worse to come if he doesn’t submit now. He could fight her, but it wouldn’t even have to come to that. If he withdrew his assent, she would stop, and they both know it.

Don’t they?

She almost asks, but decides it ought wait. He carries enough, just now. She can hold the question til the end. He almost holds back the cry on the fourth, and fails, and it twists something inside her. “Only two more, Commander. We are very nearly there.”

He says nothing in reply, but she can feel his muscles straining. She rubs a small circle until he relaxes, fractionally.

He cries out on the fifth and sixth blows, too. She does not know when he began to cry, did not see his face til they were done, and anger floods her. She should guessed. She should have _known_. He comes to her for aid, and this is his reward? She begins to draw up his pants in silence, realising with dawning horror as she does that the last two broke skin. Not along the whole length of them, just on the far side where the tip bit too far into swollen tissue.

“Lay on the bed,” she instructs, lowly. “Some of these need treatment.”

“I can endure it,” he tells her.

“I have no doubt. But I did not come here to leave you bleeding, Cullen, and I will not.”

He rises without assistance, though she hovers, withdrawing only when he is face-down on the bed, trousers still lowered. _I can endure it_. He endures enough. Lyrium addiction, which would have driven him senile in time, for a population who does not comprehend the sacrifice and a Chantry that ignores it. Lyrium withdrawal, which might have killed him, to command a force many yet think heretical. Beatings at the hand of a friend, that he does not backslide, torn between two equally distressing positions.

He hisses as she dots elfroot just along the places where _welts_ became _cuts_. “Lift your hips,” she instructs, and when he obeys – only a little sluggishly – she draws his clothing up. His face is still wet – indeed, he is still weeping, a slow trickle – and she sits on the bed without invitation, turning towards him, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades.

“How did it come to this?” Cullen asks. “I thought – for so long, I thought—“

He falls silent, and she will listen, but she will not pry. When it is clear that he will not speak further, she tells him, “‘Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.’“

There is a long moment before Cullen replies, “‘Let mine be the last sacrifice.’”

“I pray Andraste it be so,” Cassandra says, with all her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've sat down and plotted out the story, and it looks like it'll probably be 8 chapters. It's going to get a bit angstier for the next while, so if you have any friends who really like to cry, you should let them know about this fic! The next one is pretty bad, but chapter four is gonna be a doozy.
> 
> Also, if anyone would like to beta-read, please let me know. I have mild aphasia, so...


	3. Chapter 3

_“I should be taking it. **I should be taking it!** ”_

The words reverberate around in Cullen’s skull long after the Inquisitor has left his office, and he burns with the shame of it. How close to undoing all their efforts on his behalf had he come, in a moment? But for the Inquisitor’s grace, he might well have – had she breathed a doubt, voiced the smallest encouragement, would he have grabbed that excuse like a drowning man a rope?

But she hadn’t. She’d been firm – not as firm as Cassandra, but every bit as compassionate. He hadn’t deserved that. But he had needed it, and she’d given it him, and he’d – he’d held on. The rope she’d thrown lead him safely back to shore…

Where he paces, his metaphors getting completely away from him as his mind roils.

They trust Cassandra to watch him, all of them. They trust her to relieve him, if necessary – and if necessary, by force. And yet… they send her away. She is not his nurse. She has many duties that require her attention. And if he is not strong enough to manage a few days without her supervision, should he be trusted at all?

He loathes the pacing, treating his office no better than a condemned man does his cell. He knows he should rest – even the Inquisitor had urged it, gently – and he knows he will not sleep. Or, worse, he will, and dream of horrors, hounded by demons through nightmares, until he wakes, shouting. He goes out instead of up, wandering the grounds, fretting, flogged mercilessly from one thought to another –

He changes direction, suddenly determined. He _will_ be flogged, perhaps not mercilessly, but though he asks of Cassandra much, he does not think she will deny him this.

She cannot.

It is not enough for her to simply layer his flesh in welts that focus his mind and quiet his desire and smother his pride. He came so close to destroying her work, to betraying her faith. Skyhold is not a place of torment, for the most part, but instruments of justice are rarely tender. He filches a whip from the prison. Oh, it is with his own key that opens the he opens the lock, and by every right he may he call it to his hand, but there has no order been given for this, no record made of what has happened, or will happen. This is how abuses start, he thinks, but at least he directs his only at himself.

He inspects it carefully. It is clean and well kept, and he keeps it curled under his pillow, a promise to himself, until Cassandra returns.

And then he tells her. He tells her what he has done, every bit of it. Of the weakness, the words, the whip.

“And for this trial you have weathered, you wish me to punish you?” Cassandra says, measuring her words out evenly despite her surprise, thoroughly unimpressed.

Cullen nods. “Yes. Severely enough that I will quail at the thought of enduring the like again,” he tells her quietly, watching her eyebrows climb.

“Cullen, you ask –“

“Too much?” It’s a fair question, a challenge, a plea not to make him beg – perhaps even he could not say what it truly was, but no sooner has he said it than it seems manipulative. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –“

“No,” Cassandra agrees. “But you did, and I promised to help. How this helps, however, I find myself wondering. What do you truly hope to accomplish?”

“I was a hair’s breadth from taking the accursed thing,” Cullen says. “I’d thrown it from myself and still – had the Inquisitor breathed but a single doubt, I would have taken it, Cassandra. I would have –“ he pauses, shaking his head, before finishing with quiet emphasis, “taken it.”

“And I would not have dragged you to the dungeons over it,” Cassandra says. “I cannot say that I would have approved, but the choice to stop must be yours. I can support you, but I cannot make you. This – lyrium withdrawal has killed men, driven them mad. If you do not wish to walk this path willingly, then you will not. Certainly, you will not be walking it with my blade at your back.”

Cullen holds his head in his hands. “You must. You have– you have no idea.”

“No. I suspect I do not,” she agrees. “But assisting you with suppressing the worst of the withdrawal symptoms is one thing. Punishing you for simply having them is entirely another.”

“This started with a punishment!” he reminds her.

“For wilful dereliction of your duties!” Cassandra says. “Which was related only tangentially to the matter of the lyrium withdrawal. Even if I wished to, I have no authority to punish you for wishing to take lyrium, Cullen.”

“For theft?” Cullen asks, holding up the whip.

She sighs, grabs him by the elbow, and swats him – once – on the seat of his pants. “Don’t do it again.”

“I suppose that is somewhat beneath a Seeker of Truth and the Right Hand of the Divine,” Cullen acknowledges, rubbing the sting.

“My authority here derives not from the Divine but from _you_ ,” Cassandra says. “Even the first time, had you not submitted, I would not have forced you. I would have gone to the Inquisitor or relieved you, in time, certainly, but – you accepted the chastisement. You asked for further mortifications to help quieten the desire for lyrium, and I _will_ help. But to punish you, Cullen, for something so far beyond your control – it is cruel.”

“Then it is a cruelty I willing inflict on myself,” Cullen insists. “I never want to feel so close to slipping again. If it is a question of this, or that, then I choose this.”

There is a long silence where Cassandra says nothing. What she is weighing up privately, he does not know, but eventually, she nods, just once, low and long. “Very well.”

Something in Cullen’s chest loosens, even as his heart speeds up. “How shall we do it?”

Cassandra thinks a moment longer. “Strip down to your leggings, while I find something to bind you.”

She disappears back down the ladder, and Cullen does as she instructed. It’s stranger than he expected – he’s not sure if he’s nervous or not, though his skin is rising in goose bumps as he strips. He’s not even certain what she can secure him to, but he is quite sure he will not simply stand this punishment like the others, not if Cassandra intends to give him what he asked for. He goes, he thinks, to sit on the bed while he waits – the moments grow interminably, almost worse than they did when she was away – but he finds himself on his knees instead.

“Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever,” Cullen murmurs, eyes closed, and oh, and how he has, at times, these last days, “But the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world –“

“And boasts not,” Cassandra’s voice joins his softly, as Cullen continues, “nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction.” Cullen looks up at Cassandra, her stoic face full of compassion. He does not know that he deserves it, or her, but he thanks the Maker for her all the same. “The Light shall lead her safely, through the paths of this world, and into the next.”

He rises, and she nods at him. In her hands, he can see good, strong rope, and he watches with a sort of strained admiration as she tosses it over one of the exposed beams in his ceiling, and secures it there.

She turns back to him. “Perhaps you should put your bracers back on,” she says thoughtfully.

“No,” Cullen says quietly, though he knows what she is thinking, and does not disagree. “We can cover the burns in as much elf-root as you like, later,” and his gloves and gauntlets will cover them as they heal, “but I mean to stand this as well I may.”

She nods. “Come, then.”

And he does. And she binds his hands tightly above his head, before slipping a gag – more rope, though covered in cloth and knotted in the middle – behind his teeth. She knots the silk behind his head, and then lets her hand rest, warm in the freezing room, on his neck. “There will be forty,” she tells him quietly. A brutal punishment, and something in his heart quails at her words. “Some of them will surely break skin, though I will take care not to, Cullen. Surely the pain and the memory of it must be enough, without risk of illness, or scarring.”

She is watching his face carefully, and he realizes that she is waiting for his assent. Forty seems high – and doubtless will seem worse as he bears it – but it is off-set by the fact that she must keep a light hand if he is to rise in the morning and serve the Inquisition. Injury or fever are the real risks, here, though he appreciates that she wishes to leave no scars for others to wonder over or shame him for.

He nods.

He nods, and she steps back, and without her hand to steady him, his fear climbs. He asked for this. After days of planning, when only the thought of her kept him from reaching for the philter –

The first strike lands like a sword blow, but leaves a line of fire in its wake. Perhaps if it were a real punishment, he might have stood it better, but as it is, an unhappy, panicked whine rises in his throat.

Concentrating on keeping silent gets him through the next several blows, but somewhere past ten, the first tears fall, as he dances to the whistle-tune of the whip. By twenty, he thinks, his face is sheeted, with sweat and weeping alike and it is perhaps at thirty that he can do nothing but hang there and take it.

He gives up the pretense of dignity; he was well-weary before they began. Even his cries seem hollow; he is exhausted.

But for the first time, he feels something other than loathing for his weakness. He is doing all he can to fight it, and to fight for the Inquisition at the same time. There is not nearly so much romance in heroism as he imagined as a boy, but that does not make his sacrifice _lesser_.

When it is over – when she cuts him down – he would fall, but for her there to catch him. She leads him to the bed, and lays him down, before bothering with the gag. “Cullen, I –“ she cuts herself off, an apology, he guesses. “You need tending.”

He does, surely, and strangely, wondrously, he trusts her to do that. “Yes,” he agrees hoarsely.

She dries his face tenderly, and he is as confused as he is touched until she dabs elfroot in the corners of his mouth. Then she slathers his wrists – the worst of his injuries, he has no doubt – and covers them in clean bandages.

She works near-silently, and he floats on a sea of pain, crashing up on rocky shores as she dabs elfroot over the broken skin of his back.

“I will stay the night,” she tells him, and he nods.

He falls asleep with her hand in his hair.


	4. Chapter 4

They will be away. _She_ will be away. Serving the Inquisition, as she means to, and aiding the Inquisitor personally, but it will not be a short sojourn.

Cassandra cannot leave Cullen in the dire straits she did previously. It would be cruel. But even a brutal beating, were she to mete it out – were it right, were Cullen to assent – it could not both leave him fit for duty and last him throughout her entire absence.

It _galls_ her. She promised him her aid. Even in this. A promise sealed in stolen moments and broken skin, in sweat and sobs. Cassandra knows such debts, of old. She cannot fail him.

She ponders it for days, as they argue over logistics of all kinds; it is ever at the back of her mind. When he is beside her, at the war table, or she is alone; practicing by the smithy, or reading before bed. It is untenable. No-one should be asked to endure all that Cullen has, though he is far from alone in learning, the hard way, of the Chantry’s capriciousness to templars as well as mages.

It is only when she is wandering in the garden that she realises that her mark need not be long-lasting to be enough to keep Cullen through the long days ahead.

It takes some effort, but before they leave, Cassandra brings the small plant she’s cultivated to Cullen, in an earthenware pot.

Cullen looks at her bemusedly.

“It’s rashvine nettle,” Cassandra points out. And then, though they are alone, she lowers her voice and adds, “I thought it might… brighten… your quarters.”

Some kind of understanding – or curiosity at least – dawns, for Cullen leads the way with a cheeky smile too boyish for his years.

“Dare I ask what you intend with that?” He asks when they’re ensconced in his room.

“Nothing! Truly. I simply thought it might be a suitable curb to your cravings,” Cassandra says. Or punishment for having them. _That_ demon she cannot slay for Cullen. Even with gloves on, he is slow to reach for it, and she knows she has chosen correctly. “A brush with the plant, in a sensitive area –“

Cullen is too well schooled to shudder. “Yes. I get the picture.” Even in a not very sensitive area the rash could be considerably distracting. “I see your point.”

“We should test it,” Cassandra says.

“We should –“ Cullen turns to her, blinking.

“Cullen, an adverse reaction when you are on your own –“

“Should I somehow find the strength of will to do as you suggest, Cassandra –“

“You will. You know you will,” she says gently. He was so very desperate when she came back the last time. He would do anything to walk this evil tightrope.

He turns away. “Yes,” he agrees finally, one hand in his hair.

“I do not say this to shame you, Cullen. You are entirely courageous –“

He sighs deeply, and she bites off further comment, truthful though it is, as he begins to strip.

She turns, allowing him his privacy, peering out a darkened window at the stars as she hears the soft susurrus of fabric, the chink of metal, as he divests himself of armour both literal and metaphorical. He clears his throat, and he is naked when she turns back. He blushes in the darkness. “I did not know what skin you meant to use,” he tells her, confidentially.

“Sit,” she urges, and he does, parting his legs. He may not have _known_ , but he had certainly guessed. Still. “May I?” she asks.

He nods, his throat perhaps too dry for words. She could hardly blame him, if so.

Bodies do not trouble her; she is far too pragmatic for that. But she is not without a sense of romance, and Cullen is beautiful and courageous both. To endure this, willingly – it does things to her. Things that are not abated in the slightest when she kneels between his spread thighs. She runs a gentle, gloved hand encouragingly over his calf, looking him in the eyes in silence, waiting patiently for the sign that he is ready. He nods, and she tears off a small piece of nettle with her other hand, and he sucks in breath, even before the nettle touches his skin.

He hisses, as it does, and she continues her gentle, if haphazard, massage with her off hand as she brushes a small patch in the middle of his inner thigh, and withdraws. It is an additional torment, she knows, but best to ensure his reaction is no stronger than average: it can happen, unpredictably, and she certainly does not wish to harm him. The rash is red and angry against his pale skin, but does not look abnormal. “How is it?” she says finally.

“It both itches and burns,” Cullen says, voice tight. She continues kneading with her other hand, in sympathy as much as distraction. “But it looks normal,” he concedes. Then, with a sigh too resigned to be properly martial, he adds, “You should proceed.”

Cassandra does, slightly surprised as her attention moves from the rash – so bright on his pale skin – further up his… thigh, that the simulation is enough to cause him to harden, despite everything. Oddly, the first thing she feels is relief. Or perhaps not oddly; their… relationship? No, endeavours, surely, she has no claim on him – it has not left her unaffected, either. It is good to know she is not alone in that, and good to know that his body, which has borne entirely too much by now, yet has ways of seeking what pleasure it may.

She is gratified that Cullen has either not noticed, or is unperturbed. If _he_ were taking rashvine nettles to _her_ crotch, she would not be nearly so calm, she has no doubt.

Still. She inches the rash along his thigh – rather like a haphazard vine, in fact – and he grits his teeth and grunts and _bears it_ and her heart swells for affection for him. She is not so innocent as to miss that he is hardening, even so, and it _does things_ to her. He is so… delightfully submissive to her will, not because she is more mighty (though she may well be) or because she is of greater rank socially (true) or militarily (arguable, outside of the Chantry), but because he has elected to place her direction at the centre of his world. She feels in such moments – both now, and in private contemplation – not the cheap, shabby, Princess of the Blood that she is, but truly a princess, in the most ancient of meanings. _First_.

She isn’t _looking_ , of course, that’s not what he’s asked of her, or – but then suddenly she is, as the sidelong glances towards his, ah, _member_ reveal something from the corner of her eye. She looks, then, properly, concerned or surprised, and as the shape resolves itself in her brain, she looks up at his face, looking at her frankly, shame behind the eyes.

“I had hoped the dark would hide it,” he admits tightly.

_It_ being a lyrium brand directly on the soft tissues of his sack, hidden when the penis lay quiescent, revealed when it did not, and yet a mockery of his hardness, for Cassandra knows what the mark does: prevents a man from achieving completion; even too much pleasure will cause paradoxical pain, to the point of loss of consciousness.

“I am sorry,” Cullen continues, and Cassandra realises, as her eyes snap to his, that she had stopped looking at his face, that her eyes had fallen once more to the mark, the sword of mercy etched in lyrium and flesh, such sensitive flesh.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Cassandra says shortly. The marks had, once upon a time, been given to men thought incapable of controlling their desires around their charges, but much like the Rite of Tranquillity, it had grown to be abused. In most places, it had been done away with entirely, for it wasn’t effective at keeping mages – or young recruits – safe, and as templars had always had great latitude in disciplining their own, gradually it had fallen by the wayside. Or so she had thought.

“You must be curious,” Cullen says quietly.

“And fully aware it is not for me to pry into.” Not like this. A Seeker of Truth, yes, discovering such a thing _could_ investigate, certainly, but they are well past the time when she had the power to right this wrong. And it was a wrong, she is certain; Greagoir would not knowingly have suffered a rapist in his tower, and Meredith did not care. However he came to be so marked, it could not have been that.

“I will tell you, if you like,” Cullen says. Cassandra nods, not trusting her words, but she rises to seat herself beside him. He continues, “There was a mage in the Circle. It was well known I had... feelings for her, she an infatuation of her own on me. We were of an age, and had watched each other grow up, but no… improprieties had ever taken place. I had barely been knighted when it came time for her to be Harrowed… and I was assigned as her Harrowing Blade.” Cassandra’s eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t know whose idea that piece of cruelty was. No doubt they thought it would be enough to end things, one way or another. She survived, and I confessed to her. She was… untroubled. It was a strange world that we lived in, where you could accept such things as a matter of course. I don’t know how I stood it, let alone the mages…”

Cassandra breathes deeply, grateful the girl had not died to teach Cullen whatever ghoulish lesson Greagoir and Irving had hoped to impart. “Did you become lovers then?” she asks softly.

“No,” Cullen says matter-of-factly. “Perhaps we would have, in time, but we never got the chance. An apprentice, a friend of… my friend, had fallen in love with a Chantry initiate. Irving let her see the orders for him to be made Tranquil.” Cassandra gasps at this twist in the tale. “The boy was a blood mage, there’s no doubt about it. He wrecked a line of havoc across Ferelden before he was stopped. But the two went to my friend for help escaping the tower before the rite could be carried out. And she assented. They were caught in the act, all of them. She and the initiate were sent to Aeonar. He escaped, using blood magic, but that’s another story. I was detained, separately, and questioned. I knew nothing of it, but Irving refused to believe me. This was the compromise.”

“Compromise?” Cassandra says, far too loudly. “It is _butchery_.”

“Better than Aeonar, though I’m not sure I thought so at the time. I was horrified at what my friend had done, though I had understood how easily she been taken in. A Circle Tower is a… mess of contradictions. But she was sent to Aeonar and I was branded.”

_I was branded_. She clasps his hand, such simple words to capture the screaming agony he had undergone. “There is a second part to the rite,” Cassandra says haltingly. A ‘key’ given to a wife, to guard her husband’s chastity, though few templars who had been given brands could dream of being permitted to marry.

“I am aware. But even should I chance to find a woman willing to marry me despite… everything, all clerics capable of performing it likely died at the Conclave,” Cullen says more lightly than his words merit.

“I would marry you,” Cassandra says. “If you would have me.”

“I ask too much of you as it is,” Cullen says.

It’s not a _no_ , but it was hardly a formal proposal. And it doesn’t surmount the need to find a cleric. But there is no one she can speak to of this, not without his permission.

She presses a kiss to his temple. He is Fereldan. Is it a goat and three sheep? No, a goat and three sheaves of wheat – no, it’s three goats, isn’t it? Josephine will know, and is discreet enough not to ask why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrium brand inspired by: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10371.html?thread=44937603#t44937603


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